Ward of the White Worm

Henrietta Marsh was a woman slender enough to be called “pinched”, with a hawkish nose and a face made severe by a lifetime of frowning. Her black hair was always maintained in a neat bun, bonnet or no, which only added to the coldness of her face. Even with her jovial Uncle Harold she would only ever manage a neutral expression and perhaps two curls in front of her ears to give him the impression she was not completely without joy.

She had just arrived back and only had two short nights of rest before Uncle Harold could not restrain himself anymore and eagerly told her that he had found her an ‘excellent new employer’. Mrs Greene had blessedly made herself scarce, although Henrietta had to endure a few hours with her presence looming nearby.

The coach had arrived at its appointed time, before the Cherryhouse with its creaking wheels. Henrietta stood on the lowest step outside of the house, not terribly sad to be leaving it after returning so quickly.

“Now dear, make sure you regularly write to your aunt and I,” said Uncle Harold, taking a hold of Henrietta’s hands. “The Earl of Brynebourne is a good man, but a busy one I’ve been told. Do not be afraid to ask him should you need any further accommodations or help, and of course we shall do our best to aid you as well!”

“Thank you, Uncle Harold. I am very appreciative and grateful for what you have done,” Henrietta said, squeezing the old man’s hands lightly. “I will keep you, and Mrs Greene, in my prayers, and I will send you my weekly letters.”

“Well, let us not keep the coachman waiting, it would be terribly rude to make him start the journey late!” Mrs Greene said, she remained within the Cherryhouse to speak through the opened door.

“Indeed, it would be best to hurry,” Henrietta agreed with a polite nod of her head, leaning to pick up two of her bags.

“Oh no, Henrietta, just carry your knicker-knackery box, I’ll carry the rest for you!” Uncle Harold volunteered, grunting as he lifted up two of the trunks. “I’m still… a sturdy… sort myself!”

The coachman had already opened the door, but having noticed the older man’s straining quickly walked over to help. “Oi lemme help ya a’bit t’ere, y’gonna put out y’back, y’is.”

Henrietta lifted up another one of her bags as well, putting her ‘knicker-knackery’ box (actually it was simply a repurposed bonnet box that held some of her painting and sewing supplies) on top as she went to the coach. She hauled her bag and box into it, and found a pale slender hand waiting for her.

“Let me help you,” a woman said within, half-obscured by the shadow inside.

“Oh, thank you,” Henrietta took the woman’s hand and pushed her boot against the step, getting inside the coach as the luggage was loaded on top.

“Farewell, Henrietta! Farewell!” Uncle Harold called, waving as the door was shut by the coachman who took a moment to wipe his brow. Henrietta waved through the window.

The door to the Cherryhouse was already closed.

Henrietta sat back in her seat to look at her companion. It was a young lady with a simple straw-and-blue-ribbon bonnet and a dress of blue and green that her frail frame looked swamped within. She was wrapped in a pale shawl, with a book in her lap that a set of spectacles rested on. The young woman gave her a slight smile, she looked exhausted. “Hello, are you also going to the Brynemoor?”

“Oh, no, farther towards Watshire,” Henrietta said, keeping her voice low to match the soft tone of the woman. “Let me introduce myself, I am Miss Marsh.”

“A pleasure to meet you, I am Miss Fossoyeur,” the young woman replied.

Henrietta hid the slight surprise behind a cool mask of politeness. She was well versed in the languages an ‘accomplished’ lady might require, so the surname of the woman across from her felt more than a little morbid given the young woman’s sickly appearance. “Ah, Miss Fossoyeur-”

“Ah, do not mind the name,” the woman laughed gently, covering her mouth with her hand. “My great-grandfather was a gravedigger before the Perpetual Revolution came, and then moved here. He could hardly speak the language and the family tale says he put his occupation as his last name on accident.”

Henrietta relaxed her expression slightly, “my! No one corrected him?”

“I presume not, it must have been a busy time with all the people fleeing,” Miss Fossoyeur laughed lightly again. “Miss Marsh, where do you go in Watshire?”

“I am not going to Watshire itself, in all honestly. I am going to House Graef,” she replied. She had served in many houses as governess. Sometimes it was only for a few weeks due to an emergency of the original governess, or other times months, sometimes years. Some were the households of well-off landowning farmers, hoping to train their daughters as eligible helpmeets for something like an established gentry member or perhaps a well-to-do merchant further south. Some were moderately successful doctors, a few had been gentry, and twice had she served in the households of baronets.

It would be the first time she would be stepping into a true manor house, however. It would not be a time to relax there. True aristocracy had different standards and social expectations than a doctor might.

“What do you know of the Earl of Brynebourne?” Miss Fossoyeur asked.

“I have never met him personally, I assure you,” Henrietta said coolly, wondering if Miss Fossoyeur suspected something less than morally upright. “I have read of him before, and of his family. I know they were important supporters during the War of the Towers, that the Earl himself aligns with the Almsers party in parliament, and that the Graef family are Worms.”

“I have heard he keeps a grim in his household,” Miss Fossoyeur said, adjusting the way her book sat in her lap. “It sounds rather frightful, does it not?”

“A grim is merely an unfortunate victim of malicious hexes,” Henrietta said with a shake of her head, “there is no need to make such people suffer more for curses that were not their fault. If he has a grim in his employ, then he must be a rather considerate man.”

“Or one who wants to discourage too many visitors,” Miss Fossoyeur suggested. “I have heard he is not fond of many balls, celebrations, or parties. Some accuse him of being boring.”

Henrietta looked outside the coach’s window at the passing buildings. People were going about their daily activities. Servants hurried to shops for their masters, children played in alleys too small for horses to fit in, fashionable young men swaggered together, and older men stood in discussion with each other in just such a way as to block the progress of others. “You seem very concerned about my knowledge of the Earl, are you by chance an acquaintance of him?”

“If I was, would you blame me for wanting to know your opinion of him?” Miss Fossoyeur asked. “But no, I cannot say I am an acquaintance of him. But I do know those who are, such as Mister and Mrs Greene who I have seen at church, and the Lowhill family.”

“Ah yes, Mrs Greene is very fond of speaking of her friends, I apologize if she had disturbed you much. Undoubtedly she has likely talked much about this during church.”

Miss Fossoyeur smiled, it was a thin bloodless smile as she sat back in her seat so the light from the coach window no longer touched her pale face. “I am sorry, I have spoken much and now I have become weary. I will rest for a little while, then we may continue to speak. Would you like to borrow my book in the meantime? It’s a novel, I hope you will not judge me for it.”

“A novel?” Henrietta gently took the book, looking at its cover. It had the words ‘A KNIGHT’S BANNER’ embossed in gold on its worked leather. She glanced back at Miss Fossoyeur, but it seemed the woman was already asleep. Henrietta was not much of a novel reader. She did not put stock in the idea it would harm the minds of fragile women, she just rarely had the time and privacy to do so. So, alone in wakefulness, she opened the book to its first page.

In the Kingdom of High Aethie…